Read Chapter 37: The Surgery

The hospital corridor smelled of disinfectant and stale coffee. Camille had been staring at the same crack in the linoleum for what felt like hours, tracing its path from the water fountain to the double doors that swallowed Julien whole.

Antoine sat across from her, his hands folded in his lap. He hadn't moved much since they'd watched Julien disappear behind those doors, a surgical team closing around him like a tide. The old man's face was a mask of composure, but she could see the tremor in his fingers.

"When Vincent had his first surgery," Antoine said suddenly, his voice rough, "Julien didn't leave the hospital. Three days. His mother had to bring him food because he wouldn't go to the cafeteria."

Camille looked up. "He never mentioned that."

"No." Antoine's mouth twitched. "He wouldn't. He was fifteen, and he thought if he stayed close enough, he could keep Vincent alive by sheer will." A pause. "He blamed himself for years, you know. For not being there when it happened."

"But Vincent died of—"

"A brain condition. Yes." Antoine's eyes were wet. "The same one I kept secret. I thought—" He stopped, swallowed. "I thought if I told him, he'd wonder if he had it too. A young man with everything to lose. I couldn't give him that fear."

Camille understood. There was a particular kind of lie that came from love, and it poisoned everything it touched.

"I've been watching him since he went under," Antoine said, gesturing at the wall clock. "Thirty-two minutes now. The last time I watched a clock like this was when my wife was in surgery. Breast cancer. She came through fine, but I aged a decade in that waiting room."

"Was that before or after Vincent—"

"Before. Vincent was thirteen." Antoine laughed, a hollow sound. "We didn't know yet. He was out on the pitch that morning, scoring tries, breaking ankles. And she was—

The double doors cracked open. Both of them shot to their feet.

A nurse poked her head out. "Still in surgery. We're just checking on his heart rate. Should be another hour."

She was gone before they could ask anything else.

Camille sank back into her chair. Her phone buzzed—she'd stopped looking at it. Roland had called four times. Moreau's drive had finally arrived at Petit's office, delivered by a courier who looked like he'd been paid to forget he'd ever carried it. The emergency board meeting was in two hours. And Julien was here, on a table, unconscious, while Delacroix maneuvered pieces around a board game Camille had only begun to understand.

"His heart rate," Antoine said. "They didn't say why they were checking."

"Don't."

"I'm not—" He shook his head. "I'm just thinking. Like a father."

"Then think about something else." Camille's voice came out harder than she intended. "Tell me about Vincent. The rugby, not the death. The first time you watched him play."

Antoine was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"He was seventeen. Regional final. Julien was in the stands, nursing a broken collarbone he'd refused to have set until after the match." Antoine's eyes went distant. "Vincent did this thing—there's no name for it. He was running down the wing, three defenders closing, and instead of stepping, he just... floated. Made himself small. Slid between two of them like water. Scored under the posts. Easiest conversion you'd ever see."

"What was Julien doing?"

"Screaming. Hopping on one foot, his cast raised over his head." Antoine's voice cracked. "He worshipped Vincent. Absolutely worshipped him. And Vincent—" He wiped his eyes. "Vincent protected him. Everyone knew. You didn't touch Julien, because Vincent would find you."

"That's why the syndicate story worked," Camille said quietly. "Everyone believed it."

"Because Julien believes it still. Did." Antoine shook his head. "I gave him a truth and kept a bigger one. I thought it was mercy." He looked at her, raw and unguarded. "Was it?"

Camille didn't have an answer. She'd spent weeks agonizing over a fabrication of her own credentials, weighted by the fear that her lies would undermine everything her work had built. Julien had spent years carrying a grief that wasn't his fault, a guilt that had calcified into rage. And she hadn't been able to save him from any of it.

She reached across and took Antoine's hand. "You're here now."

He nodded. "Here now."

The clock above the doors ticked forward. Forty-one minutes. Fifty-two. An hour and fourteen.

Outside, the Mediterranean sun climbed to its peak and began its descent. Camille imagined the board room filling with men in suits, Delacroix at the head, setting traps she and Antoine had already disarmed in advance. She imagined Moreau's drive sitting in Roland's briefcase. She imagined herself on the news, her voice steady, no longer running.

The double doors opened.

The surgeon emerged, still in his scrubs, mask pulled down around his neck. His face was unreadable.

Camille was on her feet before she realized she'd moved. Antoine beside her, suddenly taller.

"Mr. Roussel," the surgeon said to Antoine—her father's name, old habit from the paperwork—"the procedure went smoothly. Significantly better than expected. We've repaired the tear and cleaned out the impingement. His heart held steady the entire time."

"But—" Camille heard the word before she could stop it.

"But recovery is a different surgery." The surgeon's eyes moved to her. "He'll need weeks of rest. Months of rehab. Whether he returns to professional play—that's not a question I can answer today. It depends on how his body responds. How his mind responds."

"When can we see him?"

"He's waking up now. I'll take you to him, a few minutes. Then he sleeps again."

The surgeon turned and pushed through the doors. Camille followed, Antoine behind her.

Inside, Julien lay in a bed, his shoulder wrapped and immobilized, monitors beeping at his side. His eyes fluttered as they entered. Cracked open, found her. A smile, weak and crooked, pulled at his mouth.

"Did I win?" His voice was a rasp.

Camille laughed, the sound catching in her throat. "You're alive, aren't you?"

"Then I won." His fingers twitched toward hers. She took his hand. "Vincent was here," he said, his voice slurred with sedation. "During the surgery. Saw him. He said—" His eyes drifted closed. "He said to stop being a dumbass."

Antoine made a sound. It might have been a laugh.

The monitors beeped. Camille held Julien's hand and watched his chest rise and fall, and for one suspended moment, the board meeting, the drive, the deadlines—all of it sloughed away. There was only this. His breath. His pulse beneath her fingertips. The fragile thrum of a future still uncertain.